


The Other Eyes

by cosmickittens



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Other, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-14
Updated: 2016-07-14
Packaged: 2018-07-23 22:43:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7482783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmickittens/pseuds/cosmickittens
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>okay look it's 2am and i'm having a crisis about my writing and i need to vent. sorry, this isn't a story, this is just me puking up my emotions so if you feel like boosting your self esteem give it a read maybe? i just need some feedback and perhaps some validation please</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Other Eyes

I’ve got one hundred eyes on the back of my head, and on the palms of my hands, and on my shoulders blades, and on every square inch of my skin that is not meant to see. The spectacles beneath my eyelids, however, are trained on my work like fierce microscopes, analyzing with focus and efficiency. This is the mountain peak of my ability, my absolute best after tireless perseverance and constant climbing over unsteady ledges of doubt and blockage. Here, the altitude is brimming with inspiration and my imagination can finally touch the clouds. I’ve been struggling all this time to grasp a coherent idea and the motivation to enforce it when they’ve been drifting here all along, begging for a hand to write them. My fingers flow rapidly across the keyboard with the ferocity of a wild river, not a single stone in sight. This magnificent experience, this explosive euphoria is indescribable. In these moments, I am certain that this is what I’m meant to do, this is my purpose, and I can see, and yet…  
The other eyes, they dart around like buzzing insects, vision rimmed in blood-red paranoia. Their anxious pupils catch on the work of all others rather than my own, panicking with the sudden sense of inferiority. Every glorious word inscribed by an opposing author will not go unseen, for I am painfully aware of the experience they’ve gathered that I lack. How could the stars have possibly aligned for their success? How did they scavenge the fortune and the talent to break the surface and breathe the fresh air of publicity? In a sea of uncertainty, I linger near the ocean floor, dwelling with the microscopic amateurs and the luminescent fledglings, the mountaintop of anthology so far, far away… I’ll never soar with the eagles in a sky of flocking writers, I’ll never stand with the gods of language in a Mount Olympus of influential authors, I’ll never rule with the artistic kings in a palace of pen-wielding warriors. I’ll never belong. How dare I call myself a writer?  
I do my best to squeeze the other eyes shut but their sight is so sharp and vivid that I cannot see my own accomplishment. Victory will always be out reach. I am weak, I am pathetic, I am nothing. Hope is a false promise preached only by those who are already safe. I have no significance in this world, because my speech has been stolen. These distorted perceptions have hijacked my voice and shielded my honest eyes from my own tasks, and I cannot see through this insecurity. My hands will quiver and my heartbeat will stutter and I will be blinded until I can sew the other eyes shut.


End file.
